There was genuine alarm on the maid's pretty, intelligent face. Mrs. Le
Roy was startled.
"Have you been all over the grounds? Are you sure you have looked
everywhere?" she cried.
"Oh, ma'am, I do not think I have missed a single spot," cried Clarice,
wringing her hands. "I have been all over Eden. I have been out into
the road, and along the river bank. I am afraid she has thrown herself
into the water!"
St. Leon looked at her with his piercing dark eyes.
"Why should she do that?" he asked her, sharply.
"Oh, sir, surely you know she was very unhappy," she faltered.
"About her lover?" asked Mrs. Le Roy.
"Ye--es, madam," faltered the maid, weakly.
St. Leon had crossed to the door. He came back and laid his strong
protecting hand gently on his mother's shoulder, and looked down into
her troubled face.
"Mother, do not be frightened," he said. "I will find Beatrix for you.
Ring for lights, and let Clarice stay here with you. I will search for
the child."
The words kindled a gleam of hope in her breast. She did not see how
deathly white his own face had grown.
He left her, and went out into the grounds on his self-appointed
mission of finding the missing girl. A new moon had risen, piercing the
twilight darkness with shafts of mellow light. In its mystic rays the
white graveled walks and groups of marble statuary glimmered ghostly
pale and wan. Clarice's apprehensive words rang in his ears:
"I am afraid she has thrown herself into the water."
"Not that--oh, not that," he said to himself.
He left the more open grounds and went out into the thick shrubberies.
The dew was falling heavily, and the fragrance of flowers was borne on
the air. The almost oppressive sweetness of the tube-rose, then at the
height of its blooming, stole gently on his senses, but ever afterward
it was connected in his mind with a sense of loss and pain.
"Beatrix, Beatrix!" he called ever and anon, in his eager search, but
no sweet voice replied, no slender, white-clad form bounded out from
among the dark green trees. He felt a strange sense of dreariness in
his search for Cyril Wentworth's missing love.
"She was very unhappy--I had begun to forget that," he said to himself.
"She had changed so much I thought she was beginning to forget that
episode with Cyril Wentworth. Was her apparent indifference only a
clever mask? Has she fled with him?"
He crushed something like a bitter execration between his lips at the
thought, and went on crashing madly through the shrubbery, and so came
out into the quiet dell where Beatrix had hidden that evening in her
frantic dread of Ross Powell.
He followed the course of the little singing stream that tried to tell
him in its musical murmur, "She is here, she is here," but he was deaf
to Nature's voice. His heart's cry drowned it.
"Why am I seeking her here?" he muttered, bitterly. "My mother was
right. She has had too much liberty. Cyril Wentworth has stolen her
away."
Nay, a sudden lance-like gleam of the silvery moonlight broke through
the interlacing boughs of the trees and touched with a pencil of light
a little white heap of something huddled under the bowering trees.
He went nearer, knelt down, and a cry of joy broke from his stern,
mustached lips.